Holmesian Musings
by ScaryScarecrows
Summary: A collection of one-shots, because sometimes a bag of candy is better than a chocolate bar.
1. Ghost

John was walking home when he spotted the flurry of a coat slipping out of sight behind a tree. He knew that coat. That was Sherlock's coat.

"Hey!"

He broke into a shambling run, his cane forgotten.

_Impossible…not with him._

"Sherlock!"

There! The coat disappeared behind a brick wall as its owner vaulted over it. John had a bit more trouble, but by the time he'd pulled himself up the coat was long gone. There was no sign of anybody. No footsteps, no broken branches, and certainly no long coat.

"Oh, Sherlock." he sighed.

_I knew it couldn't be him. Probably just some kid that got scared when I chased him._

He let go of the wall and dropped down. He needed to sleep. Then he _really _needed to stop seeing his dead best friend everywhere.

Sherlock Holmes slumped against an alley wall, panting. That had been too close for comfort. He really did need to quit checking up on John. One of these days the doctor was going to catch up and then he really would be in trouble.

All the same, he wanted to go home. He was tired of being a ghost.


	2. Stubborn

"No sister of mine would take up that position." Sherlock muttered at Miss Hunter's retreating back.

"I am your sister." Sarah reminded him. "As pleased as I am that you realise that I am not an idiot, I resent that remark."

"Mm."

"If you think that because you told me no that I wouldn't do it…"

"You wouldn't."

"I would, just to spite you."

John sighed.

"Um…"

"I'd like to see you try."

"Oh, you would, would you?" She poked his chest a few times. "Just for that, I will."

"You will do no such thing."

"Watch me."

"I'll call Mycroft."

"No, you won't."

No, he wouldn't. John knew he wouldn't. He'd make John do it instead, and John was not going to get involved.

"You are not in charge of me!"

"I'm older!"

"By sheer luck." she seethed. "And you have a bigger head."

O-kay…this was going into unnecessary information territory.

"Um…"

"Still older."

"Yet you're the one that picked a fight with an assassin."

Huh?

"I had a better chance than you!"

"He nearly turned you into ribbons!"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm smarter! I left him alone!"

"You weren't even there!"

"I would have left him alone!"

"You would have been kidnapped."

This was rather like a tennis match. He was enjoying it, actually.

"I would not have been kidnapped!"

"It's happened before!"

"Don't even bring that up."

No, please do. This sounded very interesting.

"The point is that you wouldn't take that position!"

"I'm not that stupid!"

"Exactly!"

"Although I might, just to spite you."

They'd be at this all day.

AN: Sarah's existence was inspired by one little line in 'The Adventure of the Copper Beeches'. It got me to thinking, 'Holmes, if you had a sister, she'd be just as clever and stubborn as you are.'


	3. Back

Mrs Hudson thought she was okay. John and Sarah still had the flat upstairs-it was still a mess, for that matter, minus the bullet holes in the wall-and life had moved on. Every so often a client would go up. More often they would come down at an odd hour. Just like always. Only now there were two pairs of footsteps once again.

It was a nasty, wet day today. Just right for baking, in her opinion. She was pounding out the dough for scones when the doorbell rang. Even with Sherlock…gone…people still came. The stream of sympathy callers had waned now, thankfully.

"Coming, just a minute!"

_Ding-dong._

People were so impatient these days! She would be there in a minute! Her hip didn't allow her to go that fast, after all.

_Ding-ding-ding-ding-dong._

Ohh, for the love of…if it was some kids having fun, she was going to give them an earful!

"All right, who…"

"Mrs Hudson."

She couldn't breathe. The floor was suddenly there under her back and the next thing she was aware of was the _click-clicky-click _of a text message being sent. Her eyes must have deceived her, that was all. Sherlock Holmes wasn't coming home, not ever.

"I'm sorry."

Her eyes flew open. Gloved hands propped her up against the wall. She blinked a few times before realising that she was not blind or near-sighted or farsighted. She knew that coat. And that voice.

"Sherlock Holmes, what have you done?"

He opened his mouth, possibly to explain or apologise or say something else entirely, and she put her hand over it. Did he have any idea what they'd gone through while he went on some sort of vacation? She could stand the bullets in the wall and the heads in the fridge and even the (seemingly) unstoppable, unwanted deductions, but this…this was too much.

"What have you done?" she whispered. Shouting didn't sound possible right now. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

He looked at her hand and she removed it.

"I'm sorry." Two apologies in less than five minutes. Perhaps she was dreaming. "I'm so, so sorry, I had no choice…"

Then she saw the attempt at lock-picking, the scrapes and chinks in the doorknob.

"That is going on your rent, young man."


	4. Texts

AN: This is sort of a companion piece to 'Back', but can be read alone.

**Beep.**

_Coming home. Ignore any possible shrieks._

_SH_

**Beep.**

_I take it back. Bring me an ice water._

_SH_

**Beep.**

_Sarah._

_SH_

**Beep.**

_Forget the ice._

_SH_

**Beep.**

_SARAH._

_SH_

**Ding.**

_I'm in the shower, what do you want._

**Beep.**

_Mrs. Hudson fainted._

_SH_

**Ding.**

_WHAT DID YOU DO?_

**Beep.**

_I came home._

_SH_

**Ding.**

_For good?_

**Beep.**

_Yes, now bring me water._

_SH_

**Ding.**

_You should have told me!_

**Beep.**

_Water._

_SH_

**Beep.**

_She's yelling at me, forget the water._

_SH_

**Beep.**

_Now she's hitting me._

_SH_

**Beep.**

_Any time now._

_SH_

**Beep.**

_She's crying, help me._

_SH_

**Ding.**

_Coming._


	5. Home

Three years is a long time. It's been three years since anyone has played the violin, or kept heads in the fridge (Sarah keeps thumbs in there sometimes, though) or shot at the wall. Three years since John's had a full nights' sleep, and three years since Sarah's smile has quite reached her eyes.

So John will be forgiven for gaping when he comes in one afternoon and hears the violin. And the piano. His first thought is that it's a recording, but that makes no sense. It doesn't sound like a recording. His second thought makes more sense-there's a madman in here who can play the violin and _requested _that Sarah play the piano. Yes, that makes much more sense. It's the only other explanation.

He picks up his old cane (he never could get rid of it, and he uses it sometimes now) and wonders if he can get the drop on the nutter in their flat.

The cane falls from his fingers to the carpet upon seeing said nutter. He believes in ghosts now. Firmly. Or maybe he's hallucinating. Perhaps he should call the mental hospital to come and fetch him.

It simply isn't possible for Sherlock Holmes to be standing at the window, violin in hand, playing a duet with his sister. Sherlock Holmes has been dead for three years. He can't be here.

"Sh-Sherlock."

Nobody answers. That's not surprising. Before it always took ages to get their attention when they were playing. The ghost or hallucination or whatever this is should be no different.

"This isn't possible." he whispers. "I'm going mad. Scratch that. I'm completely insane."

Whatever they're playing comes to an end and Sherlock sets his violin down.

"You're out of practice." he informs his sister.

"So are you, so shut your trap."

"I was away. You have no excuse."

"It's called grief, brother dear, and I had to make it convincing. You know that."

"How much trouble am I going to be in?"

John finally speaks again.

"Sherlock."

"John."

"You're not here."

"Of course I'm here, what are you going on about?"

"Sherlock." Sarah hisses. "Timing."

"Not good?"

"Just a bit, yeah."

A ghost, then. Sarah is too level-headed to be hallucinating and besides, what are the odds of them sharing a hallucination?

"You can't be here." he whispers. "It's impossible."

"You did a good job, I take it."

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"Be gentle with the poor man!"

What?

Sherlock reaches out a shaking hand (can ghosts shake?) and John meets him halfway. He doesn't go through him like he thought he would. This is impossible. It just can't be possible.

"Sherlock…"

Then he makes his acquaintance with the floor.

"Good going."

"What?"

"You scared him."

"How was I supposed to break the news? Tap dancing? Text message? Hugs? I don't _hug_, Sarah."

"I've half a mind to hug you and see what happens."

"Remember the last time."

There's a slapping sound.

"Ow!"

Did Sarah just slap a ghost? Can ghosts be slapped? The floor is very comfortable.

"I think he's coming round now."

"I hope so. And I never thought I'd say this…but he needs to eat something."

"I tried to tell him. He nagged me in return."

"That's our John."

"Indeed."

John doesn't want to open his eyes. He doesn't want to see any more ghosts. It doesn't make sense, it's not possible. Sherlock can't be here. He can't be.

"John? I know you're faking."

Although…if anyone could annoy the angels _and_ the devil into kicking him out, it would be Sherlock.

"John."

This is not the floor. This is the couch. How did he get onto the couch? Sarah isn't that strong. Can ghosts lift people? Levitate them or whatever?

There is a poking (poking?) sensation.

"Sherlock, stop that."

"He's obviously in shock. If I poke him enough he might realize that I am a tangible being."

"Stop."

The poking stops. He is then shaken.

"I can't poke, but you can shake?"

"Shut up. John, wake up. You had a bad fright, but it's all right now."

"Sherlock…"

There's the sound of fabric being yanked on.

"Hullo, John."

"You're dead."

"No."

"I saw it."

"You saw wrongly."

All right. He will look and he will see that he is completely insane. Nothing to it.

He looks.

Sherlock and Sarah are leaning over him, looking more than a little concerned.

"You're going to have a bruise." Sarah informs him. "You went down before we could catch you."

We?

"You can't be here." he says to Sherlock. "It's impossible."

"We've been over this."

"You…" Wait. Wait one minute. "You're here."

Sherlock looks relieved.

"Yes."

"Honestly."

"Yes."

"Prove it."

"What…"

He knows he'll feel guilty later for punching his best friend in the face.

"You bastard!"

"John…"

"You selfish bastard!"

Sherlock has the sense to move out of John's reach and duck behind Sarah. Sarah retreats to her piano and Sherlock follows her.

"Now, John, I can explain…"

"Do you have any idea…" John's up now. "Any idea at all! Of course you don't, you would have told me! You sorry bastard, I can't believe you!"

"Sarah was involved."

They'll discuss that at a later date.

"Sherlock Holmes, so help me…"

Sherlock throws his hands up in surrender.

"Have at me, then."

He wants to. God knows the man deserves it. But for some strange reason, the worst he can do is hug his friend.

He'd be lying if he said Sherlock's discomfort about being hugged doesn't give him some satisfaction.

AN: John's response is what I would do if MY best friend did that to me.


	6. Missing

_Coffee shop two blocks down. Five minutes. Wear clothes._

Clothes? She always wears clothes! Just because their definitions are different…oh, who is she kidding? He'd rather have her in a potato-sack dress with no makeup.

Sarah sighs. She is grateful John's not home, because she doesn't think she can lie to him about this. It's difficult enough to keep up the charade when his eyes are so hollow…God. She isn't going to help her twin if John decides to jump him. He really does deserve it.

Sherlock has let his hair grow out since she's seen him last. It's a surprisingly effective disguise, actually. Coupled with the sweat jacket (she'll never let him live that down, never) and that stupid graphic tee shirt ('I believe in Sherlock Holmes', what an egotistical…), he doesn't look anything like his old self.

"Is that a mocha?"

"Don't laugh, they're delicious."

"You're going to get fat and then you won't be able to make fun of Mycroft anymore."

He ignores her. She gets tea. They sit in absolute silence for several minutes.

"I read about an explosion." she says at last. "What might that have been?"

"Never you mind."

"What do you want, Sher?"

"To see my favourite sister?"

"I'm your _only_ sister. What do you want."

"How's John?"

He's dancing around the subject, but never mind that. She wonders what to say. The operation will be derailed if he comes back now, and he will if she says too much. She's at an advantage right now, given the circumstances, and she doesn't want to blow it.

"He misses you." she says at last. "Very much."

"And Mrs Hudson? Lestrade?"

"They miss you, too. Everyone does. I hate lying to them."

He nods.

"I'm sorry."

Obviously. That word is so very seldom in his vocabulary.

"I know."

He sighs and leans forward, clutching his coffee with both hands.

"I miss them. I want to come home."

"Just…don't break in again."

They have a laugh over that.

It was a near miss, that one. Sarah's mobile had taken a dive into the bathtub-long story-and when she didn't answer, he assumed somebody had taken the phone, broken in…and narrowly avoided being seen by John, who had been home with the flu.

"I won't."

"Good."

"Is he all right?"

He knows. She knows he knows.

"No." she says softly. "I'm worried about him. The limp's back. And the shakes. And the night terrors." Sherlock doesn't look up. "How much longer will we have to keep this up?"

"I don't know." What a rare phrase! "I don't know. I need you to look someone up."

"Who now?"

"Sebastian Moran."

"Fine."

There's more silence. Sarah wonders suddenly what the likelihood of running into John is. Hopefully low.

"We won't get caught in this, will we?"

"No."

It hits them that they sound like two people having an affair.

"Oh, lord." Sarah says quietly. "We're not having an affair. That's just…not good."

"No. Not good at all."

More laughter ensues and they turn the topic to lighter things.

"Hurry up and finish this." she says. "I miss my piano. But I can't play because 'I'm in mourning and it reminds me of you'."

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Sentiment."

"Most people don't just recover after their twin jumps off a building."

Sherlock frowns. She considers smacking him, but there's coffee and tea in the way and she wore white shoes today. She won't stand for stains on her white shoes.

"Okay."

They sit in silence and all too soon, he has to leave again.

"You're not homeless, are you?"

"I have to catch a train to Leeds."

Ugh. She always hated Leeds.

"Lovely. Enjoy. Mind the ham sandwiches-there's been something about food poisoning going round."

And that's that. Gone again and she has to go home to continue this little lie that isn't really so little. She hopes things go back to normal soon.


	7. Out

"Ciao."

"Where are you going?"

"Don't encourage her."

Sarah smacked the back of Sherlock's head on the way by and picked up her purse.

"Out."

"On a date?"

"That is none of your concern, brother mine. So shut up and go back to your nicotine patches."

John peeked out from behind his laptop and looked her over. Fitted shirt, plaid skirt, black heels…yeah, probably a date. Wow. He didn't know Sarah ever went on dates.

"Have fun." he offered. He was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you, John. Feel free to throw things at him if he gets out of control."

Sherlock, noticeably, didn't say anything. Sarah flounced out the door and John turned around.

"She's allowed to have a date."

"Shut up, John."

"Just thought I'd remind you."

"Shut _up_, John."

Hah! So Sherlock was grouchy that his sister had a life now. John would have to remember this for later. Maybe he'd blog it or…something.

They were watching crap telly when Sarah got back, arms full of shopping bags.

"How was your date?"

"What date?"

What.

"Isn't that what you went out for?"

"No. I went shopping. I was out of clean clothes, this is what I could find to wear."

John snuck a look at Sherlock. His expression was a comic mixture of annoyance and relief. Wait…he'd been _wrong_. Sherlock Holmes had deduced _wrongly_. This was going on the blog first thing in the morning.

"What'd you get?"

"More clothes."

Well, she'd said she was going out.


	8. Birthday

The fire alarm is going off.

John pulls the pillow over his head, thinking that this will be the day the flat is actually burning to the ground, and wonders what his flat mates have done _now_.

The alarm stops and hushed voices follow. He doesn't want to know. Perhaps one of the fingers made it into the toaster.

His door flies open and two very bashful, very messy people appear at the door.

"Happy birthday, John."

Birthday? Oh, right. So it is. Wow.

"We set your breakfast on fire, so you'll have to make do with this."

This? What is _this_? Should he be scared?

They produce his favourite pastry from down the street. He relaxes a little.

"We tried bacon, but somehow it went up in flames, so…"

He grins. This looks much better than bacon…bacon?

"Where did you find bacon?"

"The bottom drawer of the fridge, why?"

Oh, god. That bacon must be ancient.

"It's probably for the best you burned it." he says. "Thank you."

They grin and go back downstairs. A few minutes later, he hears the worrisome words, "He doesn't suspect a thing."

Oh, god. He doesn't want to know what they _really_ set on fire this morning.


	9. Towel

"Sarah?"

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

"About to take a shower, why?"

"May I come in?"

"No! Whatever is wrong with you, use a bucket!"

"No, I really think I should come in!"

"Why?"

There was a pause.

"Promise you won't be angry?"

"No."

"…I lost my tarantula."

There was the sound of flying fabric and the door flung open. Sarah was wrapped in a white towel.

"Get in there and find it."

John kept his eyes on the floor until she'd passed before turning to Sherlock. The man had already gone in, plastic box in one hand and the lid in the other.

"Doyle?"

John wasn't too eager to find the tarantula, really, and he made his way back to the kitchen table. Sarah had had the same idea, unfortunately. Oh, dear.

"Keep your eyes on the floor, John!" Sherlock called. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Shut up and find the damn tarantula, Sherlock!"

This shouldn't have been difficult. Really. He'd seen Sarah half-naked before, when she needed stitches in her back.

Forget _her_ wrath-Sherlock would have murdered him in some horribly creative way and hidden his body where it would never be found. Or buried it under 'Here lies John Watson, who couldn't keep his hands to himself'.

Yes. This shouldn't have been difficult.

But it was. It was horrible. Maybe it was the towel. More revealing than a mini dress, but less revealing than a bikini.

_Eyes on the table. You like living, don't you John? Don't look up._

It was fifteen minutes later that Sherlock finally emerged, tarantula in hand.

"Under the sink." he explained.

Sarah squeaked and rushed past him without a backward glance.

"I didn't look." John said quickly. Sherlock smiled.

"I know that. You want to be buried in a cemetery."

Sherlock always did have a way with words.


	10. Dead

A man walks on the sidewalk with his coat clutched tightly around him. He has been dead for two months, six days, three hours, four minutes and twenty-nine…thirty seconds.

This ridiculous ear-flap-hat prevents anyone from really recognizing him-half a glance isn't enough and besides, he is dead. He jumped from a rooftop in front of so many people and shattered into little pieces on the sidewalk.

Pity he can't forget his best friend,

_only friend_

the way he begged him to _get down from there, Sherlock, it's all right, just please…_

He shakes his head. No. Not now. He can't do this right now.

He never thought it would be this difficult, being dead. No credit cards, no mobile, no nothing. He is a homeless man with the occasional good fortune

_Mycroft Holmes is the name of that_

to get a cup of coffee. He wants to go home now. He wants nothing more than to go home and see John and Sarah and Mrs Hudson. After they've all attacked him

_John might break my nose for this!_

they'll go out to that Chinese place that stays open til two and then come home and watch crap telly. He never thought he'd miss crap telly.

He supposes he will have to get hold of Sarah at one point, since she has a wireless connection and all, and he's not looking forward to that. She might murder him. Scratch that-she _will_ murder him, and it'll be painful. Is it possible for a dead man to be painfully murdered?

Soon. But right now he has to find a cheap hotel and procure a cup of coffee.

He hates this. Dead men may tell no tales

_Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!_

but Sherlock Holmes would very much like to tell one tale, the tale of a lunatic on a rooftop and of a man that by all rights should not have existed at all.


	11. Floyd

_Dum. Dum. Dum. Dum. De-dum._

John was reasonably certain he'd heard that piano riff somewhere before, but that wasn't terribly surprising. He wouldn't even call it a riff, really. The only thing Sarah had played in the last few months was stuff like that-simple things that required no attention whatsoever.

"Sarah?"

_Dum. Dum. Dum. Dum._

"Yes?"

"What's that from?"

"Don't remember."

The conversation was over. But the _dum. Dum. Dum. Dum. De-dum_ continued at random.

John had forgotten about the possibly-familiar piano riff until sometime at three in the morning, six months after Sherlock's return. Three in the morning…why. Why, why, why?

This time the riff was accompanied by a screeching violin and the pieces clicked into place. So they _did_ listen to modern (well, modern-ish) music on occasion! He wished they wouldn't demonstrate this fact at three in the morning, though.

"Is that Pink Floyd?" he called groggily. It _may_ have come out as, 'Issat Punk Floy?', but the music halted immediately.

"Go back to sleep, John."

For all their brilliance, they could be absolutely dense at times. There was no point in saying so, unfortunately, and he pulled his pillow over his head. Soon enough, the song resumed, but this time it was quiet and he could sleep.

AN: The song in question is Pink Floyd's 'The Great Gig in the Sky', off of 'Dark Side of the Moon'. For whatever reason, I was listening to it and this happened.


	12. Dreams

_Back in the noise, in the heat…people dying…can't see…arm hurts…next volley is going to get me killed for sure._

"John. John. John. Dr John Watson!"

John sat up, gasping and sputtering and reaching for his service revolver. His hand met nothing and a second later somebody's hands pressed against his right shoulder and chest.

"Stop. Calm down. You're back in London, all right? You're in 221 B. Baker St., London, England. Okay?"

He blinked. London? When had he come back to London? Was he on leave or something?

Then it hit him. Eccentric roommates. Scotland Yard. Eyes in the microwave. London, indeed.

"John?"

"Sarah."

"Uh-huh. You were thrashing around like a madman up here. You all right?"

Sherlock would most certainly not approve, and Sarah might not like such close contact, but he needed a hug. She stiffened up like a fireplace poker before patting his back a few times. Good enough.

"Better?"

He nodded and let go of her. Sherlock was going to kill him.

"Thanks."

"Go back to sleep." she said. "If you need anything, I don't sleep."

He waited until she was gone before rolling over and deeming it safe to go back to sleep.


	13. Gone

It's been six weeks, three days, two hours, and twenty-nine minutes (excuse me, thirty minutes exactly) since Sherlock Holmes jumped.

John Watson hasn't left his chair very much during this time. He hasn't actually done anything. He's stared unseeingly at the telly (sometimes it's on, but he never remembers turning it on), and he's stared at the wall, and sometimes he's even talked to the skull. Very rarely he tries to talk to Sarah, but any attempt at that results in both of them breaking down crying.

All in all, they don't talk any more.

Three months. They can talk now, a little. At first it was just awkward bursts-'we're out of milk.' 'Lestrade called.' 'Want a cuppa?' Now, though, it's a little easier. As long as they avoid mentioning _him_, they can talk. John thinks it's better to discuss the weather with Sarah than with the skull. Sarah answers back.

And, if he's going to be honest, she really does remind him of her brother. When she plays the piano (a rarity these days), he can sometimes hear the strains of a violin underneath. Usually that only happens when he's tired.

Seven months. They're working again. It isn't the same, of course, but it pays the rent and gets them out of the house. John was going to go back to surgery, but Sarah convinced him to come. Act as a bodyguard, she said. I'm a midget. The Sherlock in his head told him to keep an eye on her or else.

Crime scenes are more subdued. Like crime scenes should be. There's no more sarcastic banter, no more discussions of getting Chinese food on the way home, no more…well, anything. It's go in, inspect, tell Lestrade what's what, and go home. Sometimes they'll get coffee at that place on Fleet Street.

They still don't mention him,

One year. They can cope now. They can talk about him now, just a little. Always good memories, though. 'Remember what he told those little girls about Heaven?' 'Shooting the walls at three in the morning…thought I'd have a heart attack the first time he did it.' 'Remember when you had to tell him to just…not iron again?'

It's a step. John's noticed something, though. He's lost weight, and his limp has returned, but there's something about Sarah. He can't put his finger on it for the longest time, but late one night it finally hits him.

She never laughs anymore.

AN: Because it's not all giggling at crime scenes.


	14. Shock

John didn't realise that Lestrade had kept the news of Sherlock's 'resurrection' all to himself. He might never have realised it if the twins hadn't found news of a murdered reporter and wanted to see what it was about. And if Lestrade hadn't texted him, asking him to let him know when they were getting close. That was new.

He did as asked and was surprised to find that Scotland Yard was nearly deserted when they walked in. As such, Sally Donavon startled him when she came out of her cubicle, empty coffee cup in hand. He wasn't expecting her response at all.

"F-F…"What was that about? She knew…she didn't know. "My god…Sherlock."

That was, to John's knowledge, the first time she'd ever used Sherlock's name to his face.

"Ah, Sergeant Donavon." Was that a touch of discomfort? "Good afternoon."

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes."

"You're dead."

"Really? I don't recall…" John elbowed him in the ribs. "No. There was a misunderstanding."

Well, that was one way to put it.

"You jumped off the roof."

"Technically I fell, but…" This time it was Sarah that elbowed him in the ribs, and it didn't look like she'd been nearly so gentle. "Not exactly."

"But you…I can't…"

"Good to see you too, Sally."

She didn't hug him-John was pretty sure that Sherlock was relieved at that-but she did give them a wide berth.

"It's…" She took a deep breath. "It's good to have you back, Sherlock."

That seemed to unnerve Sherlock more than a hug would have. If John was going to be honest, it unnerved him, too.


	15. Medicine

Sherlock is lying in bed, sending complete and utter disdain to the imbecile that got him sick. He's inclined to blame Donovan on principle, but he knows it's more likely to be Lestrade. Lestrade was the one with the sore throat, even though he tried to hide it.

John and Sarah aren't happy with him-all right, perhaps hiding a high fever was a bad idea-but they've left him alone to sleep for the time being.

The door opens and the smell of lemon tea wafts in. Sarah, then. She can't have normal tea, heaven forbid. It's always either peppermint or lemon.

"Sher?"

"No."

"Yes. If you won't sleep on your own, you're taking the bloody medicine."

"I'm fine."

"John, I'm going to need help!"

What? This isn't fair. This is unnecessary.

John comes in, sleeves rolled up, and Sherlock's only thought is, _Don't be so dramatic. You're not fighting a dragon._

"Sherlock," he said firmly, "if you don't take the medicine, I'll pin you down and she'll pour it down your throat."

He's not joking. This is bad. Sherlock doesn't like that plan of action. Isn't there another one?

"John…"

"Now, Sherlock."

He runs through the likely results-pain, medicine, sleep. On the other hand, he could take it without the pain.

"Fine."

AN: Free scones to all that read, follow, or comment. Thank you all very much.


	16. Inspector

Lestrade never really did shake the guilt. It clung to him like a little demon, whispering in his ear at night. It was all his fault, every last bit of it. If he'd just believed…God…

Three long years of it. He healed a bit-all people do, eventually-but all of that would eventually crash down around his ears.

He'd been summoned to 221B Baker Street one sunny afternoon. He hadn't wanted to go, but John had pleaded and he had relented. Guilt again. God, why?

He hadn't gone in when he heard the argument. Great.

"…shut up, it's valid!"

"She's right, I think…"

"You've never played, what do you know?"

He knew that voice. He wouldn't mistake it anywhere. But it wasn't possible, it couldn't be possible…no, no…

He burst into the room, terrified of what he'd find, and stopped cold.

Sherlock Holmes couldn't be sitting there, arguing with his sister about a chess move. Even worse, _John_ was in on the argument too. Had everyone gone mad? Or just him?

"Sherlock." he whispered. The man looked up and nodded.

"Lestrade."

"Sherlock." he said again. "Sherlock, God…"

He wanted to punch him. Hell, he _should_ have punched him, for all the grief he'd caused everybody, but John probably took care of that. Or Sarah. Or maybe even both of them.

Before the detective could move, Lestrade hurtled across the room and hugged him tightly, sobbing openly into his shirt. Laundry soap.

"Lestrade…"

"You bastard!"

"I might deserve that."

"You do." Sarah said from somewhere to the side. Sherlock patted Lestrade's shoulder and stood still until he was released.

Sometime today he really would have to ask what had happened, but right now he needed to soak in that Sherlock Holmes was somehow alive. And that was good enough.


	17. Decisions

"Ninjas."

"Pirates."

"Ninjas!"

"Pirates!"

"NINJAS!"

"PIRATES!"

John can't believe what he's seeing. The Holmes twins, private consulting detectives, ice-cold-hearts extraordinaire, are arguing over…ninjas and pirates. He wonders briefly if he is dreaming or in some kind of alternate universe. A pinch causes pain and this does not seem like Wonderland, so yes, it's real.

"Um…"

"JOHN!"

He cringes. They can shout loud enough alone, but when they shout together his head throbs. Are his ears ringing?

"We need your opinion."

"Didn't know you cared."

They wave their hands and descend upon him like vultures.

"Which d'you like more? Ninjas…"

"Or pirates?"

What? That's not fair. He doesn't want to get involved in their row, and he certainly doesn't want to make an enemy out of either of them. He has to say something, though.

"Um…"

"Not hard, John. Use your brain. You've got one up there somewhere."

Oh, this is too much. Fine! Fine! He'll say something, all right.

"Neither." There are two sharp intakes of breath. "Doctor Who is better than both of them."

They are silent for five seconds. John turns to go upstairs.

"Who's in second, then?"

Oh, _no_.

AN: I wanted to see how far I could take the OOC-ness. I never did get an answer to that question. And in case you were wondering, John is right. Because bow ties are cool.


	18. Introductions

"This is my sister, Sarah. You'll get along if you keep your eyes either firmly on the floor or on her face."

"Sherlock!"

"I am merely laying down ground rules."

"You are acting like we live in eighteen ninety-five!"

"If we did, you would behave!"

John Watson looks at the floor. Siblings, indeed. They look a little bit alike. They're certainly _acting_ alike. They even adopt the same posture to yell at each other.

"Rubbish! I only hit you when you deserve it. Which is often."

"Is that any way to treat family?"

"Remember Rupert?"

"The frogs!"

They laugh and turn to John.

"Pleasure to meet you, John Watson." Sarah says. "Welcome to the mad house."


	19. Meeting

Sherlock has long since cut off all contact with his family. Why should he bother with them? Granted, he sees his sister all the time-they went into business for themselves, thank you very much-and he sees Mycroft on occasion, but other than that…why bother? They were all idiots.

He is astounded, therefore, when a woman he doesn't know flings her arms around him in public. He suspects an assassination attempt and pries her off.

"Sherlock?"

He knows her. He must know her. She seems familiar…Mary.

"Mary?"

"Sherly!"

He knew there was a reason they didn't speak. What is he supposed to say? He was never good at these unexpected social interactions.

He is saved by the arrival of John and Sarah. Sarah dodges the young woman's attempted hug-humph-and John looks from one to the other in confusion.

"This is my cousin, Mary." Sherlock says at last. John shakes hands and Mary glows.

"Sherlock saved my life when I was a little girl." she says. Sherlock grimaces. She always did make a big fuss out of it. Can't she just move on already? Someone would have found her eventually.

"Really?"

"Uh-huh."

Sherlock snorts and turns away.

"I am going home."

Before Mary can say a word, he leaves.

AN: This has a 'sibling' peace, but that is a story for another day and another collection.


	20. Alike

Sometimes John wondered how Sherlock and Sarah Holmes were related. They looked nothing alike-apart from the mop of curly hair-and they went out of their way to antagonize each other. The only time they got along was when there was a case involved, and even then…

Other times he could see that they were indeed related. On the rare occasions that they bothered to eat anything, it was always half-burned toast and watery tea. They typed the same way-rapid bursts followed by long periods of silence. They had the same creepily piercing eyes, the same smug expressions when they knew they were right, and the same grandiose gestures when they were explaining. They tied their scarves the same way. They also had a strange habit of knowing when the other was in trouble.

John had seen this talent in action a few times on both ends, and each time he had hated it. Sarah had disappeared once-kidnapped, as it happened-and Sherlock had been grouchy and on edge all day, even before the police called with the news.

Sarah had picked up on the fact that Sherlock had a nasty case of the flu long before the symptoms had started. John hadn't noticed her stocking up on soups and teas and those little pastries that they both liked until Sherlock woke up with a fever and a runny nose. Even then he'd blamed coincidence until he remembered the kidnapping incident.

Oh, yes. They were alike, all right. But he would bet that they'd be damned if they would ever admit it.

AN: This isn't really 'done' but I'm marking it as such because all of these can be read on their own. I'll probably add new one-shots as I write them. It almost certainly WILL grow when series 3 comes on. Until then...

I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES.


	21. Dangerous

"He'd murder me if he saw me like this."

She doesn't clarify who _He_ is. She doesn't need to.

"Yes. After yelling at me not to look."

The chuckles are less forced for the first time in months. Maybe it's because there's a case, a dangerous case. The best kind.

John won't say it aloud, but he likes the dangerous cases more than the other ones. Retrieving sensitive material is one thing, but it's just so…boring. Hunting serial killers is a way to feel alive again, sad as that may sound. Sarah apparently agrees, because she's put on the short skirt and the tight top that just _beg_ for bad things to happen. _He_ would have thrown a fit if he saw her like this. But _He_ isn't here.

Perhaps that was why the dangerous cases are better. Because there is always the chance that he could see his best friend again.

Of course, there was also the chance that he could lose his surviving best friend. But John tries not to think about that.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

"Stay back a bit. If he thinks you're with me he won't come."

"Be careful."

"I'm always careful."

Oh, of course. Leaping over rooftops and dressing up as serial-killer-bait is careful. Playing a game of cat-and-mouse with a madman is careful. She's never been what he would call 'careful'. Neither of them were.

"All right, then."

He makes sure he has his gun in his pocket-can't be too careful, after all, look at their first case-and grabs his coat. He tries not to look out of habit.

"Come on, John!"

That hasn't changed. He's grateful for that. At least something has stayed the same since It happened.

The whole thing goes off well, the scariest thing being the fact that he nearly lost them in an alley. They emerge without too many scratches and by two they're at that Chinese place down the street for their first meal in three days. John fell into that bad habit shortly after It happened. _He_ was right-his mind does feel sharper. And the food tastes better when it's been awhile.

"I might actually sleep tonight."

"No, you won't."

"Probably not."

She'll deny watching crap telly at three in the morning, too. So will he, probably. It's just one of those things that they don't talk about.

"You should." she says. "You have to go to the hospital tomorrow."

"Yeah."

And just like that, the case is really over.


	22. Holmesian Relations-Drugs

AN: Hullo. Just a heads up-if a piece includes 'Holmesian Relations' in the title, it'll be a family-centered one-shot. Also, mentions of cocaine usage ahoy.

Mycroft is sitting at home, enjoying a good book, when his phone rings. He doesn't look at it before picking it up.

"Yes."

"M-My…"

His blood freezes. Sarah never calls. She hasn't used that old nickname in ages. And she certainly doesn't cry. Whatever's happened, it's bad.

"Sarah?"

"M-Mycroft…please…y-you have to c-come to the hospital."

"What's going on?"

She sounds unharmed, so it must be…

"Sh-Sher…he overdosed on cocaine, please come down here."

"Which one?"

There's the sound of a nose being blown and she speaks again. She sounds a little more in control this time.

"Bart's. Please hurry, My, please…"

He hangs up and goes to his car. Normally he'd take a cab, but this can't wait.

The nurses don't dare argue when he gets there, and within three minutes he's standing just inside the door of a quiet, white room. Sherlock is-thank God-asleep. Sarah isn't. She looks all right, albeit tired, and he looks at his brother.

Sherlock does not look all right. He's pale and sweaty and the way he's lying says that he's been vomiting recently. Mycroft takes a step closer and sees that he's shaking despite the blankets.

"Sarah?"

She looks up, eyes rimmed red, and gives him a tentative smile.

"Hullo, My."

He sits down in the spindly chair, unsure of what to say. They don't talk much anymore. He knows the twins have been fighting recently, but neither of them has gotten him involved.

"What happened?"

She shrugs.

"I dunno. I was out helping an old friend with something, came back, and he was just…" She swallows and continues. "Just lying there. I-I thought he was having a seizure or something."

Sherlock groans and twists a bit. Neither of his siblings move.

"The doctors think he'll be all right." Sarah says softly. "I just thought you should know."

Mycroft isn't sure what to say. He settles for saying nothing and just nods. Sherlock's eyes flutter open and he looks guiltily at Sarah.

"S-sorry."

"You should be."

"I-I didn't…"

He's getting agitated and Mycroft steps in.

"It's all right, Sherlock." he says softly. "Just go back to sleep, you're going to need it."

Sherlock looks a little surprised that Mycroft is here, but he nods anyway and closes his eyes again. After a minute, Mycroft reaches over and runs his fingers through his brother's hair. Sherlock doesn't protest.

"Mycroft?"

"Mm."

"Why are you here?"

"I was worried about you. Now shut up and go to sleep."

Sherlock shrugs and turns to Sarah instead.

"S-Sarah?"

"Hullo, Sher."

"I didn't mean to."

"I know you didn't. Listen to Mycroft. Go to sleep."

He nods and nestles into his blankets a little more. A few minutes later, he drifts into an uneasy sleep, comfortable for the time being.

"He'll kill himself next time." Mycroft says.

"I know."

"Can't you control him?"

"If I could, I would. You think I enjoyed coming home at three AM to find my brother choking to death on his own vomit? Because I sure as hell didn't, Mycroft!" She slumps forward. "I've done everything I can. Begged, pleaded, thrown it out…you know how he gets."

He does know. Sherlock has always been like that.

"I know." he sighs. "I know."

Sherlock shivers and whimpers something in his sleep. His siblings hasten to comfort him and a second later he's quiet again.

"All we can do is wait." Mycroft murmurs. "Hope he comes to his senses."

It's six months before Sarah calls again, this time reporting that Sherlock's in withdrawal and wants him. Mycroft cancels all appointments for the day and bows to this request.

Sherlock is asleep when he gets there, but he's trembling and unable to move without wincing. He wakes up when Mycroft sits down next to him.

"M-Mycroft?"

"Yes."

It's a sign of how sick Sherlock is really feeling that he crawls into his brother's lap like he was five years old again. It's a sign of how worried Sarah is that she nestles up against his side with a cup of tea.

"Thanks for coming, My."

This is incredibly uncomfortable, but Mycroft doesn't move. It's been a long time since he's seen his siblings without an argument breaking out.

Sherlock yawns and falls into an uneasy sleep. He's shaking like a leaf and Mycroft reaches over for the wool blanket at the foot of the sofa.

"He'll be all right." he says to Sarah.

"I know."

"What did he say earlier?"

"I couldn't make it all out. He was sick, really sick, and he wanted you."

Mycroft is touched, although he won't admit it. Sarah knows anyway, and Sherlock is too sick to give a damn.

"He'll be all right." he says again. "Don't worry about him."

"You're worried."

Drat.

"Yes."

Sarah sighed and tucked her feet under her. A few minutes later, Mycroft was the only one awake. This hadn't happened since he was sixteen and they were ten.

An hour later, the landlady came in with tea and promptly went back out. There was no need to disturb them.


	23. Holmesian Relations-Overdose

Imposter (Guest)-I'm touched! :) And at a loss for words, for that matter.

AN: Yup, more drugs. A companion piece to the previous one-shot.

Sherlock is far from comfortable. He's cold, and sore, and the bed he's lying in is not his own. Where is he? Is this hell? He remembers throwing up and passing out, but that's all.

There's voices. They sound like hums at first, but if he concentrates he can make out words.

"…just lying there…"

All right, so Sarah's here. She's probably talking to the doctor.

He feels guilty(!) and something tells him he should probably apologise for scaring her. His tongue feels heavy and he isn't sure that his words come out right.

"You should."

Ah. They did come out right, then.

"I didn't mean…"

Another voice slides in, oily and in-charge. What is Mycroft doing here? He should be doing…government things. Right?

He won't admit it, but he's glad his brother's here. Mycroft will keep him safe, he always has.

"My…"

"Mm. Shut up and go to sleep, Sherlock. We'll discuss this later."

A soft hand tousles his hair and he leans into it-he can't help it.

"S-Sarah?"

"Listen to Mycroft."

It's cold in here. He hates it. Why can't he go home?

"Mm."

"I mean it. We'll talk when we get home. Just go to sleep."

He yawns and seeks out a more comfortable position. His stomach's shaky and he hopes he doesn't throw up anymore. He wants to sleep, but it isn't happening. He keeps his eyes closed and listens to his siblings instead. Their voices remain in a soothing murmur until an argument starts up. Unsurprisingly, it's centred around him. It's giving him a headache.

Soon enough, the argument stops and his headache recedes. It isn't long after that that sleep takes him for the night.


	24. Holmesian Relations-Cocaine

AN: Last of the drug-shots.

Spiders. That's what Sherlock sees when he finally opens his mouth. Spiders and a harsh, black smoke rising up out of him when he lets his breath out. He can't feel the needle in his arm anymore and he looks at it, wondering, before easing it out of his skin. The spiders crawl up the wall and he can't help but breathe again, wanting to see the black smoke coming up out of his mouth. Is he a chimney? Maybe he took too much.

_Don't be stupid, that's impossible, I measured it just so._

He's on the ground. The spiders are coming towards him, curious. He reaches out to touch one and it skitters back. When did he end up on the ground?

Bile forces itself up his throat and through his lips and he wonders briefly if perhaps, this time…

_What'll death be like, I wonder?_

perhaps he's taken too much…

"Sherlock!"

He knows that voice. It's familiar. Let's see…it's a woman. He knows her. He thinks he knows her, anyways. The spiders aren't speaking, are they? Can they do that?

"Call 999!"

Why? There's no reason to overreact.

"Sherlock?"

Something with an S…

"Sherlock, dammit…"

He's shaken and more bile rises up. The shaking stops and now he's on his side, vaguely aware that he's shaking and that his stomach hurts. He can't breathe.

"Sherlock, don't do this."

Sarah! Dear God, she's going to murder him. He said he quit. She didn't push. And now…oh, God, he's a dead man.

"Sherlock…okay, it's all right. Breathe. We'll discuss this later."

He can't breathe. He can't stop vomiting and he's aware that he should probably wave her off.

"Don't you dare…"

Her words are lost in another round of vomiting and a moment later, he's lifted onto a stretcher. Not long after that, he passes out cold.


	25. Holmesian Relations-Nuisances

AN: Poor Mycroft. I'm glad I'm an only child, I really am.

Mycroft Holmes hates the idiot that gave his siblings chicken pox. Eight years old, home sick, and itchy. He made the mistake of offering Nanny a rest and now…

"My. My, what's that?"

They know what it is. They've asked him about it a thousand times now.

"It's a picture of a donkey."

"What's the other word for it?"

He won't let them drive him insane. He won't allow it.

"No. Now be quiet and watch the telly."

"But it's bo-ring." they sigh. "And it makes us itchy."

"And then we have to scratch."

"And _you_ said we're not to scratch."

Ohh. What he'd give for a nap. He will never take Nanny for granted again. These two are hellions on caffeine, and they haven't even had coffee. They're too young. God knows what gives them this much energy, especially when they're ill.

A heavy book smacks itself down on his lap and two feverish, polka-dotted things tuck themselves up under his arms.

"Read." they demand.

"Now."

"Or else."

If it'll shut them up, he'll buy them a puppy.

"What do you want me to read?"

They point to the title. It takes Mycroft a few minutes to digest the fact that his siblings can't be normal and want to read _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_. No, they want him to read _Dracula _to them.

"Oh, all right." he sighs. "Just be quiet."

They may be nuisances, but he loves them anyway. All the same, he can't help worrying about them. They just aren't…normal.

Oh, it doesn't matter. Plenty of abnormal people have done fine. They'll be fine.

Hopefully.


	26. Socialising

"No. We're not going and you can't make us."

John sighed. He knew parties weren't their cup of tea, but really. This one wouldn't be happening at all if not for them. The child's mother had been kind enough to offer an invitation, the least they could do was go. It wouldn't be that bad.

"You will go and you will behave. Socializing won't hurt you."

"Make us."

He'd hoped it wouldn't come to this.

So had they.

Half an hour and several snags on John's coat later, they were in a cab going to the party. The twins were glaring at him and he wondered if they were even blinking.

"That was bad form, John." Sarah grumbled. "Unnecessary."

"Should've gone the first time."

"We will remember this."

"You'll delete it."

He was answered with two identical scowls-how did they do that?-and two huffs.

"Just you watch."

When the cab arrived at the park, they brightened up and headed for the food. Good. Not-eating was bad for them, it was nice to see that they'd taken his advice. John let them alone and sought out the child's mother.

He'd forgotten about them when it was time to go, and he was happy to see that they were cheered up. See, he'd told them they would delete this morning's incident!

"We ought to go to more parties, John." Sherlock was saying. "Are there any other ones coming up?"

"I don't know. What did you two do all afternoon, anyways? I didn't see you."

"Oh. We socialized, just like you said."

Uh-oh.

"How, exactly, were you socializing?"

"Well, Mrs Grumpet's-don't laugh, it really is her name-her husband's cheating on her. We told her."

All right. Hopefully that was the worst thing.

"How else?"

"Mrs Gregson made a doctor's appointment to see about her heart condition."

Or not.

There was no point in saying anything. There just wasn't. It was probably best to quietly dispose of any invitations from here on out and hope they'd delete today.

"And we haven't forgotten this morning."

Lovely.


	27. Holmesian Relations-Sorry

AN: Two words: teaser trailer.

She should have known better. Her brother is far too fond of himself to jump off a building. God knows why, but there it is.

She's sitting at John's laptop, checking her e-mails. They're all boring variations of the sympathy note. Sympathy. Ick. If she wanted sympathy, she'd ask. She gets enough of that from John and Mrs Hudson, anyway.

She really should throw that stupid skull away, but she can't. She's always hated it, with its…teeth…but Sherlock liked it and she just can't. Sentiment. What an unpleasant feeling. Is this how other people feel all the time?

A shadow falls across the screen and she frowns. Is John home already? He's never read over her shoulder before, but…

"Is it after five already?"

"It's three-thirty."

Oh, she's gone insane! Just like Great Aunt Tessie. When John gets home she'll ask him to take her to the mental hospital.

"Hullo, Sherlock."

"You're not upset?"

"There's no point getting upset if you're not here. Move over, though, you're blocking the light."

He moves, further proof that he is not here. The real Sherlock never would have moved.

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry."

"Of course you are."

"Sarah…"

"I don't want to hear it. You jumped off the roof and splattered on the sidewalk. It's very sad and apparently I need medication now. Are you happy?"

There's an irritated huff and the laptop is suddenly closed. Before she can complain, she is lifted from her chair and escorted-well, dragged kicking and screaming-out of the room.

"I'm not dead."

"Let go of me!"

"I'm sorry. I had to. But I'm not dead, and I need the internet."

What.

"Prove it."

She's always right, even if he doesn't like to admit it. And now he'll see that he's a figment of her imagination and maybe go away. Then she can grieve in peace.

Sherlock opens the window and shouts at a pedestrian. The pedestrian shouts back.

"Believe me now?"

Her eyes are going all foggy and she shakes her head. She refuses to faint. Not before she's given him a good what-for.

"Sherlock Holmes," she says quietly, "_what were you thinking?_"

"I…"

Oh, he's speechless! He'd better be, after doing something like that. She's going to kill him!

"You idiot!" He steps back and she grabs his sweater to keep him from going any further. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Of course you don't! Because you only think about yourself and not what might possibly happen when you _fake your death_! Congratulations, Sherlock, you've got yourself a nice, shiny tombstone now! And don't you dare tell me this was some sort of _experiment_!"

"I'm sorry."

"You'd better be sorry! For God's sake…" She's run out of things to say and now her throat hurts. "For God's sake, Sherlock…"

He removes her fingers from his sweater and she grabs him.

"I had to."

"Rubbish."

"I can't explain it all right now. I need the internet for something."

Of course.

She lurks behind him, hoping he can feel the anger radiating off her. She's very glad to see him, but now that the shock has worn off, she's not pleased. He may have enjoyed playing dead for a month, but she didn't.

"Well?"

"Thank you."

"When are you going to tell everyone else?"

"I don't know."

What.

"What do you mean?"

"I have some things to do. Please don't tell them."

She's tempted to do it anyway, just to teach him a lesson. But he sounds very serious and she thinks that maybe she shouldn't.

"Why?"

"Later. I'll…text. Or something."

Fine. But she doesn't have to like it.

"John's going to kill you."

"Probably." He folds down the laptop. "Is it really shiny?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It's shiny. You'd like it. You can see your face in it."

Before she can press him for answers or even offer a cup of tea, he's opened the window and climbed down the drainpipe to the street.

She wonders if he's going to tell Mycroft.


	28. Tombstone

mysterious-fiolee-Thanks! :)

AN: I always figured Sherlock to be a cat person. In the books, Holmes is described is being rather cat-like.

It really is shiny. He can see everything in it. Why did Mycroft pick this thing? Why does he have to have a tombstone at all?

He reaches out to poke it and smudges it. If it's fragile enough to be smudged, he doesn't like it any more. Besides, it's very surreal to be looking at his own tombstone. He'd tried to make it to the funeral, but things had come up. Molly informed him later that it wasn't polite to videotape funerals. Hopefully nobody shared any embarrassing stories. Mycroft is just the type to tell everyone about his old teddy bear.

A grey cat winds around his ankles. He pushes away thoughts of disease and scratches it behind the ears. If he must have a pet, he's always been partial to cats. They're quiet.

"I'm dead, you know." he tells it. It purrs and curls up on his shoe. "I'm buried right here. With this shiny thing on top of me."

It doesn't seem to care. That's fine.

He wonders what will become of this when he comes back. Maybe he can keep it as some sort of souvenir. It probably won't fit in the flat, and John and Sarah will hate it, but…he'll think of something. Maybe he'll donate it to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft picked it, Mycroft can have it back. He can always pass it off as an ugly mirror.

The cat takes off after a moth and Sherlock stands up. It's time to leave. He has to catch a train to Dartmoor. He's not at all thrilled about going back, but the sooner he goes the sooner he can come home. In theory, anyway.

He gives the overly-shiny tombstone one last look before leaving. God, he just wants to come home.


	29. Moustache

AN: I can honestly see Sherlock not liking the moustache.

"You let him grow that thing!"

"What was I supposed to do, drug him and shave it off?"

"Yes!"

"Shave what off?"

"John." John raised his eyebrow. "That moustache. Why?"

"It was time for a change." He wasn't surprised Sherlock didn't like it. Sherlock didn't like it when he put on the blue jumper instead of the oatmeal one. "I like it, and Mary likes it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gestured to the offending facial hair.

"A moustache, John? Really? You couldn't have started wearing your hair long?" He tugged at it and John batted his hand away. "Why a moustache? It looks terrible."

"It does not look terrible. It's just different."

"It looks like you have a rodent attached to your upper lip!"

He let that slide. Sherlock would just have to get used to the idea. It wouldn't kill…it wouldn't hurt him.

That was before a razor appeared in his bedroom. Really? Oh, for…

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"The razor."

"I thought you might like it."

"The moustache is staying, Sherlock."

"But it's terrible! I can't believe Sarah let you keep it!"

"She said it looked fine!"

"She lied!"

John threw his hands up and dropped the razor on the table.

"The moustache stays."

Sherlock scowled and disappeared behind the newspaper again. John shook his head. He liked the moustache. Women liked the moustache. It was staying, and that was final.


	30. Lunch

I'm Nova: I'm not really on it, but it's all fine. :) The only people I ship are Mulder and Scully, because I can't help myself.

AN: Yeah. That teaser sparked some kind of creative avalanche.

"You know, Sherlock, I think people don't worry about me anymore." John took a bite of his sandwich. "I guess they've gotten used to the whole idea."

It was nice out today. It was actually sunny.

"I've met someone at the clinic. Mary. You wouldn't like her, but she really is nice." He paused. "Maybe you would like her. She's clever. Not like you, but…clever. Sarah likes her."

He sat in silence for a few minutes, finishing off his sandwich. What else was there to say? Nothing had really happened lately. Not since last time.

"So. Um…see you next week, I guess." He reached out and patted the top of the tombstone hesitantly. "Good-bye, Sherlock."

The groundskeeper must have been sick today-he didn't recognise this man at all. All the same, the man tipped his hat and said, "Good-bye, Dr Watson."

"How…how do you know my name?"

"Messer Jekyll mentioned ya. Said you're 'ere every Wednesday at noon to see yer friend."

Oh. He honestly didn't remember telling Mr Jekyll his name, but he must have. Sometimes Wednesdays are a blur.

"Oh. Um, okay."

If he'd turned around two minutes later, he would found the groundskeeper missing and a wig, a hat and a shovel lying on the ground. If he'd poked around a little, he might have found Sherlock Holmes hiding behind a large angel-shaped tombstone.

"Good-bye, John."


	31. Problems

AN: I have had all of these except the blogging one. The tea bag in the sink happens frequently, though.

"Dammit!"

"What?"

"I threw the spoon away and put the tea bag in the sink."

"Congratulations, John."

"Bravo, John."

"I have to dig through God knows what to get it back!"

The twins rolled their eyes and went back to their instruments. Really, John could be so dramatic at times. It was just a spoon. They could get more spoons. If he paid more attention, it wouldn't have happened in the first place.

"Dammit!"

"What now?"

"I'm out of things to blog about."

"Good for you, John. Now you may stop inflicting your opinions on the internet."

"But I have readers!"

When had that become their problem? They hadn't asked him to start blogging about them, after all. If anything, it was rather annoying. Besides, he was always exaggerating how things went.

"What are you doing?"

"Working."

"Anything interesting?"

"If we tell you, will you blog about it?"

"Maybe."

"No."

"Dammit!"

This was starting to get annoying. Couldn't he solve his problems by himself?

"What, John."

"I threw out the wrong take-away."

How many take-aways were in the fridge?

"Fantastic."

"I wanted the other one!"

So? He had a phone, he could call the Chinese place or whatever it was that he'd thrown out. It wouldn't hurt him.

John slumped down in front of his laptop and put his head on the table.

"First world problems."

What…oh, never mind.


	32. Believe

A flash of yellow letters catches his attention. The same yellow as the cipher case. He shouldn't pay it any mind-it's just graffiti-but that shade of yellow… He backs up and goes into the alley, ignoring what a terrible idea this is.

**I believe in Sherlock Holmes.**

That's all it says. One of the homeless network must have put it here, as some sort of eulogy. Or something. All the same, he snaps a picture of it and continues on towards Baker Street.

It's two months before he sees it again, this time out in the open. It's the same yellow paint, and the same message. He takes a picture of this one, too. It hurts, yes, but it's touching to see that someone else knows his friend wasn't a fraud. Even if no one else cares.

It's everywhere now. On the tube, in the alleys, on rich people's garden walls-just everywhere. Someone has started a blog with all the locations it's popped up in. It's caught on, too. John sees it on shirts, buttons, and backpacks. Once he even saw someone with a tattoo of it. The media ignores it as best they can-he suspects Mycroft's involvement-but it's still there.

Sherlock would be pleased with all the attention.

The media can't ignore it anymore. Someone wrote it on Scotland Yard in the middle of the night. Lestrade admits that he'll be sad to take it off.

Every news channel in London has a reporter outside, giving a run-down of Sherlock Holmes and what had happened. As if everyone had deleted the whole thing.

"Can't you claim Blog Copyright Infringement or something?"

"I don't think that exists."

Sarah sighs and changes the channel. More news.

"Can't they talk about something else? Some celebrity's probably having an affair."

"Do you know anything about the, ah, spray paint?"

"No."

He doubts anyone ever will. He hopes it doesn't go away. Not until they know the truth.


	33. Passive

AN: Surely I'm not the only one that says, 'pardon me, so sorry' when I really mean, 'move, dammit! you're blocking the street!'

John hadn't realised how frightening the words, 'excuse me' could be.

"Excuse me, pardon me, oh, for the…thank you."

These people didn't know any better, of course, but that tone meant that Sherlock was about to lose his patience. And when that happened, he tended to get himself punched in the face.

"Please behave today."

"I _am_ behaving, John. Despite the fact that-pardon me-people are running into me, slowing down to drink their coffee, and generally not getting out of the way."

If Sherlock had his way, he would travel around in some sort of oversized hamster ball.

"Just…behave."

Then someone walked into him and spilled hot coffee on his jumper.

"Pardon me." he ground out. The woman stammered out an apology. "It's fine."

Maybe that oversized hamster ball wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

"Behave, John."

"Shut up, Sherlock."


	34. Funeral

AN: I wouldn't be at all surprised if Sherlock went to his funeral in-series. But this is fanfiction, (obviously) and I didn't let him.

"So. What was the funeral like?"

"A lot of people turned up."

"Anyone interesting?"

John rolls his eyes. It's funny how normal this conversation is turning out. Who knew how easy it would be to talk to his best friend about said friend's funeral?

"Yes, Sherlock. Your brother showed up, for one."

"Mycroft? How very interesting. Anyone else?"

"Your homeless network. A lot of people I didn't know."

"What happened?"

"There was a lot of crying."

"Dull."

"Sarah cried on me."

"Oh?" John doesn't like that look. It's a look that says Sherlock's found blackmail material. "She always said she wouldn't."

"She did. So did Lestrade."

"Did anyone video this, by any chance?"

"Sherlock!"

"What? People do it at weddings."

"This was a funeral! We thought you were dead!"

"I would have videoed it."

Of course he would have. Leave it to Sherlock to want a home movie of his own funeral. Why is he not surprised?

"It was…very nice. You would have liked it."

"It sounds very boring."

"It was very dignified."

Sherlock frowns. John shakes his head and rustles his paper to end the conversation.


	35. Naptime

-Not on purpose, no, but you can fangirl anyway. :)

AN: You know that when Sherlock realized coffee meant 'no sleep', he was all about it. You know it.

The final straw for John was when he stumbled upon an old picture of the Twins. They had to be around twelve, but they were seated at a large table, gripping equally large coffee cups. An intervention was called for. They would get a full nine hours' sleep if he had to drug them. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

After two days of careful planning, Operation: Naptime was a go. It was dangerous-he risked the wrath of two caffeine-deprived 'high functioning sociopaths' if he succeeded. But he had no choice. They had to sleep in order for him to be able to sleep.

He was up very early that morning. There was no sign of them anywhere and he slunk to the kitchen to prepare the coffee. So far, so good.

He took the little bag of decaf and prepared the coffee as usual, before going back to bed, just like always. Hopefully they wouldn't notice anything. That was a big thing to hope for-they noticed everything-but maybe they'd be too tired to register what was going on.

He had been planning to go back to sleep, but he couldn't manage it and ended up staying very still, listening for them to get up.

It was nearly seven by the time they got up. Was he door locked? Yes, yes it was. Not that it mattered, but still.

It was long past the time they should have gotten the coffee. Maybe they hadn't noticed anything odd? He could only hope.

All right, it had been half an hour. He could get up and see what was going on. They were too quiet for his liking.

_It's like living with two year-olds!_

He made his way downstairs. Where were they? They hadn't even touched the coffee? Oh, god, had they been kidnapped or something? Then he spotted the note.

_John-went to get coffee. You bought decaf by accident. Use your eyes next time. SH_

He sat down at the kitchen table and plunked his head down. This just wasn't fair. After a minute, he went to get his phone and sent a text.

_Get me some while you're at it._


	36. Holmesian Relations-Visit

mysterious-fiolee-Glad you're enjoying it! That is a very good question. I have no idea who it was. Maybe both. Maybe Skull came down and tacked that on after they left.

AN: Continued tomorrow with 'Caretaker'!

Sarah Holmes looks at her twin's tombstone, wondering what possessed Mycroft to make it so…shiny.

"Hello, Sherlock." she says softly. "How are you?"

She sits down on the grass and looks up at the sky.

"I miss my sheet."

"You are late."

"Yes, well…"

"You were checking on John again, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"One of these days he might catch you."

Sherlock Holmes prods the shiny tombstone and frowns.

"Why is it so shiny?"

"I didn't pick it, so don't ask me."

"It's terrible."

"Take it up with Mycroft."

"I will."

"What do you need?"

"An internet search of these names." He hands her a slip of paper. "Text me anything interesting."

"Your handwriting has not improved."

"I'm sure yours is no better."

She rolls her eyes at him and leans against the shiny tombstone. After a moment, Sherlock does the same.

"Hopefully we won't knock it over."

"It's hideous anyway."

"True."

She glances over the paper. None of these names are familiar. Why would they be? Moriarty was careful.

"I'll text you." she says. "Good luck. Don't do anything stupid."

"Thank you for the confidence, sister dear."

They stand up and begin their stroll to the cemetery gates.

"I meant what I said about John." she says. "Be careful."

"I am always careful."

"If he catches you, I am not  
responsible for what happens."

"What might that be?"

"A well-deserved punch to the face." she says. "Get going, I have to be back before Mrs Hudson starts to worry."

He scoffs but clambers into a fenced-off section and heads for the wall. The last she sees of him, he's running from the angry caretaker, who is armed with a shovel.


	37. Caretaker

Sherlock drops behind a large tombstone, keeping a wary eye out for that crazy caretaker. It was a shortcut! That was all! He hadn't been intending to rob any graves or kick any tombstones!

He pokes his head out and looks for any sign of the shovel-wielding madman. He'll have to find another way out of here and get a good disguise for any future visits.

The caretaker is back by the shed. Good. He can just slip out the back way, then. He stands up and starts walking.

"Hey! You!"

Forget walking. Running is better. Good for the lungs. And an excellent way to avoid bruises.

He jumps the low wall and darts across the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a cab. That could have been…unpleasant.

"And don't you dare come back!"

Really? The man is really shaking the shovel at him? He should tell him who he is. Then he'll think he's being haunted or something. That might be an interesting experiment. Damn, he shouldn't have told Sarah so soon. He passed up a golden opportunity.

This was an interesting afternoon. But now the loneliness is setting in again. He wants to go home. He's so close, barely twenty minutes on foot. Wouldn't they all be glad to see him?

No. Not yet. It's not safe. He really shouldn't be in London, but he had to see his siblings and make arrangements. And check up on John, of course.

He trudges towards the cheap hotel, looking forward to a hot shower and some coffee. Hopefully Sarah will get back to him before the end of the day, so he can make a plan.

He pulls the hood up over his head and buries his hands in his pockets. God, he wants to go home.

AN: Well, that took a turn for the angst. Sorry about that. When I have a release date, things might get happier.


	38. Time

Xayhra-No, that is totally your idea. Do it, and don't bother giving me credit for it.

* * *

Three long years. Three years of hiding, globetrotting and struggling to get the bloodstains off his hands. Three years of hunting down every last one…well, almost every last one. He needs help for the last of them.

He makes his way up the familiar street. It's time to come home. It's all he's wanted for the last three years, but now he's terrified. What if Mrs Hudson has a heart attack? What if John doesn't want to see him anymore?

There's no point in standing here worrying. He looks at the familiar door and traces the 221B on it. Then he puts his finger on the doorbell and presses it.

Nobody answers and he presses it again. And again. And once more. Then he hears that wonderfully familiar voice shouting, "All right, one minute!"

Then the door opens.


	39. Sleep

mysterious-fiolee: Glad you're enjoying it! Go back to 'Back' to see who opened the door and what their reaction was.

* * *

The case is over. They didn't tell her all the details yet, but they did apologise for the broken window and the new bullet hole in the wall. They're forgiven for that. All that matters is that everyone is back home where they belong, safe and sound and mostly normal again. Well, as normal as they can ever be.

She goes upstairs, prepared to offer tea and cake, and stops at the door. They're gone…no. Not gone.

She catches sight of John first, slumped in what has to be the worst position for sleeping. His head is resting on his fist and his moustache-she wonders what Sherlock had to say about that!-moves slightly with every breath he takes.

Sarah looks a little more comfortable, tucked up against John. Her shirt is rumpled and her hair is sticking up in all directions. This is the most undone Mrs Hudson's ever seen her and the sight is hilarious.

She doesn't see Sherlock at first and for one horrible moment she wonders if he never came home, if he really is…dead. Then she spots him, sprawled out across Sarah and John's laps like an overgrown cat. He hasn't taken his coat off yet and it doesn't look as if he's going to.

She shakes her head and backs out of the room, smiling a little. Tea and cake can wait.


	40. Onions

AN: This actually works. Yeah, you look a little silly, but at least you're not crying like a baby.

"Well?"

"French Onion. That's his favourite."

The Twins shared a wince. It wasn't that they didn't like onions, it was just that onions were a nightmare to deal with. _And_ they left a smell on whatever they touched.

"Well?"

"Do you think he'd be happy with toast and eggs?"

"No."

"Ugh."

There was no way out of this. John was mad at them-there had been a…mishap…involving the eyeballs and the blender-and they needed him to talk to a grieving mother for them.

Now what?

Their eyes fell upon their work station. And more importantly, the safety goggles and plastic gloves.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

John sighed. He'd given them the silent treatment long enough. They really hadn't meant that to happen, he knew that. But the new blender…

He walked into the kitchen and froze. They had safety goggles on. And they were chopping onions. Soup? They were actually making soup?

Well, then! He could be mad for a little while longer.


	41. Holmesian Relations-Hug

"What on…what are you doing here? Are you insane?" Sarah made a flapping motion at her brother. "What is wrong with you?"

"Help."

"Get in and be quiet. You're lucky everyone else is out tonight."

"I knew they were out."

"Sit down and hold still."

Sherlock curled up on the sofa, staring sadly at his violin case. He was covered in blood and she wondered how he'd gotten up here in the first place. For once, he did not act like a child when she dug out the first aid kit. Something was very wrong here. _Where_ had all this blood come from?

"It's not mine."

"Then whose…good god."

"I had no choice."

She put the first aid kit away and sat down next to him.

"Whose is it?"

"They were going to kill me." He was white and shaking and she wondered if he was having a nervous breakdown. "They were going to kill me, I had no choice…"

"Don't be cryptic. What's going on?" He shook his head and slumped forward. "Sherlock?"

"I didn't want to."

"Most people don't enjoy the experience." She hesitated. "Do you want a hug or…something?"

"A hug?"

"Isn't that what people do?"

He shrugs.

"I don't know."

"You must be sick if you're admitting that."

"And you must be insane if you're offering a hug."

"Touché."

"May I have the hug?"

"Next time I ask, you'll fetch me the hot water bottle without complaining."

"Fine."

Hugging was a horrible sensation, and both of them let go extremely quickly.

"How was that comforting?"

"I'll ask John."

"Fine." He yawned and stood up. "Mrs Hudson will be back soon."

"Be careful."

"Dull."

Oh, good. He was already back to his old self. Well, almost.

"Keep in touch."

"That reminds me, I need…"

"Just give me the list." she sighed, holding out her hand. He fished out a slightly soggy piece of paper and gave it to her. His handwriting, which was bad to begin with, was nearly illegible. Why?

"Lovely."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing…get going, John will be back any minute."

Then he was gone, as though he'd never been there at all.


	42. Holmesian Relations-Brother

AN: In the books, Mycroft knew. I wouldn't be horribly surprised if he knows about it in this universe.

* * *

"Hello, Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

Mycroft's not surprised to see his dead little brother standing in front of him. For all the stupid things he's done, jumping off a building just isn't like him. If he was going to commit suicide, he wouldn't break his face in the process.

"What do I have to give you to shut you up?"

"Moriarty had a network."

"Yes."

"I need help getting rid of them. Passports, information…"

"Why?"

"It's rather your fault Moriarty found me, after all."

Oh, that's not fair. How was he supposed to know all this would happen? Sherlock had a very loyal internet fandom, after all, and none of _them_ had turned out to be psychopaths.

"Sherlock…"

"And we are related."

Yes, and he's often lamented that fact.

"Yes."

"One of them is named Moran."

"Have you told anyone else?"

"No."

"You should tell Sarah. I don't think she really believes it."

That was really his first tip-off. The twins have always had that annoying habit of _knowing_ things about each other.

"Eventually. I need the internet."

Of course. Sherlock might die properly if he had no internet.

"Fine. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you." That sounded painful.

"You're welcome." That really was painful. Hopefully they'll never have to do this again.

Sherlock disappears. Mycroft wonders how he got in here and decides he doesn't really want to know. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.


End file.
